


Between Summer and Spring

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, HDS Beltane Fest 2015, Het and Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4275390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between Spring and Summer Harry scratches his itch. The one that begins at the end of May, and builds within him, until Beltane when, at last, Harry becomes complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Summer and Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugareey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugareey/gifts).



> Mega thanks to, CuriouslyFic, always for all things and for holding my hand through most of my works. I had a fun time with this. It was left open-ended since in my heart the HDS Beltane will always go on and so, in a way, will Harry and Draco. Forever until the end of time. I totally sound like a fangirl. 
> 
> Warnings: there is prostitution, but it's neither Harry nor Draco. Harry sleeps with a couple of prostitutes, but it's brief. Also those prostitutes are women.

The itch comes every year; ‘round Yule, when the merry fires burning in their hearths fail to chase away the chill. Winter settles in his bones, a deep and unyielding cold. He tries, in vain, to drive it out with intimacy. The bodies are faceless, and give little warmth as he thrusts within them--blindly seeking a pleasure they won’t bring.

 

“Harry,” the current one calls to him, her voice a breathy whimper, and Harry goes limp despite his efforts. She doesn’t say anything when Harry slips from her--his coin buys more than her body. Precious metals also purchase her silence, and her lies. The ones that come as honeyed pants against his ear, whispering that he’s the best she’s ever had.

 

Dressing takes but a moment; the effortless wave of his wand and his skin is covered in familiar fabrics--vivid crimson and cream. Blue eyes watch him with disinterest, until Harry puts his hand into his pocket. He has an eye for detail. If he didn’t spend hours observing criminals in interrogation rooms Harry might believe her performance, but he knows the draw of delight in her lips is something she’s perfected before mirrors. Harry knows because her blue eyes are dead when they meet--a vacant stare that watches the ceiling no matter what he does to please her. The only emotion this girl shows comes at the end, when the payment is tendered, and it is desperation.

 

The first time he met one of her kind Harry had felt contrition as he witnessed the misery at the end. Now he still feels the pang of guilt, but it grows smaller each time he meets a woman for such a visit. Harry fears the day his heart is frozen enough to ignore the heartache these women wear so openly.

 

He leaves a small pouch on the dilapidated bedside table, two gold pieces clink together disturbing the fragile silence of the room, and Harry hates himself a little more when he exits via Floo.

 

\---

 

Whores are a vice he never thought he’d require; Harry’s doesn’t know their real names, he only visits them depending on his need. Urges that grow strange, and less sexual the older he becomes. In youth, it was about fucking, now--well, now he needs intimacy that goes further than sex. Harry craves companionship.  

 

Rowena, as he knows her,  Harry visits when his spacious bed grows too vacant. Too frigid. Too lonely. She smiles, her mouth a knowing curve, and gestures him closer her with long white fingers. Fingers that stroke through his hair the moment he’s wrapped in her lithe arms, and Harry sleeps. At first light he wakes, never finding contentment in sleep shared with meaningless companions.  Harry drops her ten gold pieces before he steps into her Floo.  

 

Tabitha Harry calls when he needs to complain about Hermione, or Ron, or his boss, or any person, really. She drapes herself over the expensive settee in her receiving room, face devoid of emotion, arching an elegant brow while she “listens”.  On the rare occasion Tabitha utters a scathing comment about whomever Harry gripes. Her words bring a smile to his face, but the expression isn’t close to what it was in Harry’s youth. During a time when his joy was genuine. Each evening he visits, before the arrival of her next eager customer, Harry hands her a pouch of eight coins.

 

Carol he invites to gaze at the stars. She meets him, in open fields, behind his humble home in Wiltshire. Her eyes wide and grey, gazing up to the heavens with a wonder that quells Harry’s wretchedness. They discuss astronomy, chuckle over wine about nothing at all, and share secrets that are silly pipe dreams. She’s green at eighteen, and still has a chance to be whomever she desires, but Harry is settled in life. Rooted, and he delights in the youth her presence brings. When she packs up her telescope and blanket Harry gifts her with six gold coins, and makes her promise to keep safe. He always sighs when she leaves. Her crack of Apparition leaves him empty.

 

Susan joins Harry for arguments. He pays her to scream at him, and to be yelled at in return; she calls him an idiot, a wanker, a ruddy git.  Harry never manages to hit below the belt with Susan. He stays away from her weight, her dull, pock-marred skin, and the fact she’s a whore. He’s too soft on her for this to be the cathartic release Harry requires. Susan never hits him, she doesn’t get her claws in his hide, nor her teeth and most of those nights, when Harry gives her four gold pieces, he is still frustrated.

 

Margerie Harry fucks. He fucks her gently, even when he’s meant to be rough. Harry doesn’t hold her wrists tight enough to bruise, nor does he bite her deep enough to break her delicate white skin. He fucks her mechanically, watching her with disinterest after the distraction of her pale hair wears off. It’s not silken enough between his fingers, nor is it light enough to be his favourite shade of blond.  In the beginning he got off with her; easily, since he was so pent up. Now, however, it takes nothing short of a miracle for Harry to find release between her thighs. He goes limp more often than not after a few thrusts in, and so he quits trying, drops a pouch with two coins on her table and storms out the Floo.

  
  


Ostara before, Litha after, and Beltane just between.

  
  


Between Spring and Summer Harry scratches his itch. The one that begins at the end of May, and builds within him, until Beltane when, at last, Harry becomes complete.

 

The dance starts at dawn, with the spilled gold of first light. An eager grin pulls across his face; his heart rate spikes and adrenaline fills Harry as he descends the stairs. Harry goes into the drawing room, and watches as the Floo glows green seconds before Draco Malfoy steps elegantly from the hearth.

 

“Potter,” he says, voice cool and demeanour calm. “Have you missed me?”  

 

Draco asks the same question each year, and Harry’s reply never changes. “No,” he lies, and feels a brief satisfaction in the momentary ripple of emotion that moves across Draco’s face. A ripple that is gone in a blink.

 

He watches Draco remove his outer cloak, and tracks his every movement as graceful hands drape the pricey fabric over the back of a chair. The silence that blankets them is warm, and Harry melts into the comfort as much as he can without giving himself away.

 

“Tea,” he asks. Ignoring his desire to caress Draco’s skin. To breathe in his scent. To savour the salt of his sweat.

 

This thing between them began as a dare, a bet, and Harry’d been arrogant enough, at nineteen, to believe that he could best Malfoy at every game. Even a game of the heart. His loss wouldn’t cost Harry much; a few thousand gold pieces, and he has plenty in his two vaults to spare. However, his pride won’t allow him to cede defeat. Losing to Malfoy is something he promised himself he would never do. Loving Malfoy is as good as losing, and Harry lost long ago.

 

\---

 

Harry’s mattress knows only his and Draco’s scents. Recognises the imprint of Malfoy’s lithe form, and the grip of his lengthy, aristocratic fingers when they dig into the pillow-top while Harry fucks into him from behind. The bed recalls the needs--the desires--they sate for thirty-one days. Not all of Harry’s needs are sexual; most of his wants live in Draco’s presence.

 

Soothing warmth, that comes from Draco’s long fingers as they rub Harry’s scalp, chases out the ice that has grown in Harry’s blood. Igniting fires beneath Harry’s skin like the ones glowing on the horizon from the Beltane celebrations.

 

The sarcasm in Draco’s voice when he responds to things Harry complains about comforts Harry’s soul. It creates a fondness within him, one that reminds Harry of the looks he catches Ron throwing at Hermione. Long after he’s finished his rants Harry wears a lazy grin, watching as Draco arches, catlike in the circle of Harry’s arms. His voice is laced with that dry, arch tone that haunts Harry’s dreams.

 

_You’re talking about Weasel, Potter, what did you expect?_

_Granger will get over it, never._

_Are you going to fuck me, or complain all night?_  

 

Draco’s eyes, when he watches the stars from the field behind Harry’s home, fill Harry’s heart with hope that feels lost until May. Grey irises glittering beneath the spatter of constellations, and Harry is entranced. His fingers ghost Draco’s neck, and he glides them through Draco’s lustrous hair. Draco’s eyes are bright as they turn upon Harry and he leans forward to kiss him. Trying to draw all of Draco into him with the intensity of his passion.  

 

Harry nearly laughs during their first fight, because he finds it _fun_. The way Draco calls him a filthy half-blood in one sentence and kisses him, full of bite, in the next breath leaves Harry reeling. Clutching at Draco’s slim form, leaving bruises that Draco hisses aren’t nearly enough. The challenge urges Harry, draws him in like a dragon drawn to fire, and he wants to burn all of Draco away. Needs to scorch all that they are so that with the dawn they can rise anew. Harry’s flame is teeth, sucking kisses that leave deep purple marks beneath aristocratic flesh, and nails drawing red wakes along the white expanse of Draco’s back.

 

When he fucks Draco Harry feels whole. All the little things add up within him, and drip out his pores when he’s over Draco. Domineering with his feelings he disguises as raw lust. Draco’s nails in his skin ground Harry to the moment. The hard heels of Draco’s feet dig into the muscle of Harry’s arse, and he moves deeper--tries harder to pour all that he is into Draco’s being.

 

As he whites out with his orgasm, Harry nearly believes he has, but minutes later the haze leaves and his heavy body rolls off of where he’s collapsed onto Draco.

 

\---

 

“ _One month, between Spring and Summer, that’s all, Potter, and I dare you not to fall in love with me._ ”  It was the first thing Draco said to him when he stepped out of the Floo, at the beginning of this madness. Harry still chuckles when he remembers the cocky expression Draco wore back then.

 

Harry thinks of those words every time they stand in the drawing room, at the end of Draco’s stay. As they do now, and he sees the guarded way Draco holds himself before the hearth. Standing with bated breath, waiting for Harry to break. Harry disappoints him, as he has for the past ten years, when he says, “I still don’t love you, Malfoy.”

 

“Better luck next year, I suppose,” Draco’s just as proud as Harry.

 

_I loved you the moment I kissed you, and I’ll love you ‘til I die_. The words come out as hisses, a language Harry only uses when in Draco’s presence, and Draco shivers while he grips the front of his cloak with beautiful hands.

 

“What did you say,” he demands, irritation clear in his voice. Like he _knows_  Harry’s keeping secrets.

 

“You’re welcome to try again,” Harry lies, easily. There is something around Draco’s eyes, something Harry knows surrounds his own--cowardice, pride.  

 

Draco’s smile is small, but gentle in its own way, “Until next time, Potter.”

 

“The time between Summer and Spring,” he touches Draco’s shoulder, a tiny grin of his own lingering on Harry’s mouth, “I’ll be waiting, Malfoy.”

 


End file.
